


Just Get Started

by SilkySatan



Series: Sometimes Stiles is sad [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Depressed Stiles, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Peter is a sweetheart, Therapy, dicussion of anxiety, discussion of financial dependency, discussion of panic attacks, discussion of suicide, falafel - Freeform, fluff at the end, mental health, stiles is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6048568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkySatan/pseuds/SilkySatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles takes an important step in his mental health journey with Peter at his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Get Started

**Author's Note:**

> There's discussion of some potentially triggering mental health issues. If you think this might be an issue, please take a look at the tags!

“It’s comprehensive, okay? If you want them to tell me what happens they will, and if you don’t they won’t. Do you want me to come in for the beginning or just wait out here?” Peter asked, stroking the small of Stiles’ back gently.  
  

“Could you come in with me? I’m really, really nervous. In fact, do you wanna just get some lunch? I don’t think I need a therapist. It’s probably fine. I’m just, like, stressed or something. Falafel sounds good. Do you want falafel? There’s this great place just – “  
  

“Stiles, shush. You need to go in. I know you’re nervous but it’ll be okay once you get inside. Also, falafel sounds amazing. Let’s get some afterwards, okay?” Peter had read that providing a reward for completing a stressful activity could help with anxiety in the long run. It had to do with changing the brain’s response to a situation or something.  
  

“Alright. Okay. Okie dokie. What time is it?” Stiles looked up from his folded hands and tapping feet to the analog clock on the right wall. It had birds on it. The hour hand was pointing to a Northern Cardinal and the minute hand to a Canadian Goose, according to the labels. It was 3:25. He had five more minutes to wait in this dismal room. The chairs were cream, the carpet was off-white, and the walls were eggshell. At least, that’s what Peter had said when Stiles had commented on all the “white.”  
  

“Stiles, calm down,” Peter said softly, placing his large right hand over Stiles’ small ones. “If you keep tapping your feet so enthusiastically, you’ll fall asleep during the appointment,” he joked.  
 

“I don’t think I’ll sleep for a week, and it definitely won’t be in the _appointment,_ ” Stiles said, aghast. He felt his stomach clench as he thought about having to get up and walk in. His palms were shiny with sweat and he felt queasy as he watched the clock click to 3:28. Each minute seemed to taunt him, crawling by ever so slowly. “I think I need to go to the restroom,” Stiles groaned, clutching at his stomach.  
  

“It’s just your nerves, sweetheart. You’re nervous. It’s perfectly normal. Besides, you’re out of time,” Peter told him, pointing to a door that had just opened. Stiles felt his stomach drop down to his toes. If he thought he was nervous before, it was nothing compared to how he felt upon actually seeing the therapist he was supposed to open up to. She was tall with intensely curly shoulder-length black hair and rich copper skin. She was wearing a yellow sundress and matte red lipstick which accented her bright white teeth as she smiled at him.  
  

“You must be Stiles,” she said, beckoning him with the hand she wasn’t using to hold open the door.  
  

“Yep. That’s me. Who are you? I mean – ugh – what’s your name?” He could feel himself turning red at the error. He stood up and shook her hand, looking back at Peter desperately.  
  

“My name is Eva Ibori. You can just call me Eva. Who’s this?” she asked, smiling at Peter but clearly speaking to Stiles. She seemed intent on making him talk.  
  

“This is my boyfriend Peter. He’s just here for, uh, moral support,” he explained, laughing weakly. “I’m really nervous.”  
  

“Oh, that’s alright, Stiles. Most people are on their first visit, but I promise I don’t bite. Why don’t you and Peter follow me and I’ll show you to my office.”  
  

Stiles looked back at Peter, reaching out to hold his hand apprehensively. Peter took his hand and smiled down comfortingly. “She seems nice,” he whispered once she was out of earshot. Stiles agreed but didn’t say so, not wanting to jinx anything. She led them to the seventh office down the hall on the right, just four from the end. The door was left open, showing a wall of windows. She opened the door the rest of the way and stood against it, gesturing for them to enter. After they were standing awkwardly in the middle of her small office she closed it and asked them to have a seat. There were two chairs next to each other and one by itself across the room. Stiles expected her to sit at the lonely chair but instead she sat down at her desk in a big cushy chair with wheels. She pulled up a page on her computer, turned the monitor away from them, and began typing quickly. Stiles had already filled out an informational slip when first making an appointment, so he assumed she was analyzing that or something.  
  

“Did you get an assessment when you checked in?” she asked, still not looking at him.  
  

“A what? No? I just signed in and sat down,” Stiles explained nervously. Had he already done something wrong?  
  

“Oh, that’s alright. Sometimes they forget to give them out. This is just a bit of information for me so I know a little more about what we’re working on, okay? We also use this information to track levels of depression and anxiety over time to aid in diagnosis and, if necessary, prescription. Don’t let that scare you, though,” she laughed, handing him a mint green piece of paper on a yellow clipboard with a pen tied to it. Stiles looked over the paper, intimidated by the number of questions. It asked him to rate the frequency of certain thing over the past two weeks. The questions were a bit intimidating, too; they were things like “had trouble controlling worry,” and “considered injuring myself or others.”  
  

“Can you not look?” he asked Peter, leaning away self-consciously.  
  

“Of course, love. I can leave if you want?” Stiles shook his head vehemently, content with Peter not looking at his answers. He took a moment to fill out the sheet, feeling awkward about taking so much time out of their 60 minute appointment. When he was done he handed it back, noticing his hand shaking as he extended his arm.  
  

“Excellent. Thank you, Stiles. I’m going to ask you some follow-up questions as I input your answers. If there’s anything you’d like to keep private, now would be the time to say so,” she said, reciting it as though it was a speech she had memorized long ago.  
  

Stiles looked up at Peter with contemplative doe eyes. “I think you should go,” he said softly, squeezing Peter’s hand and then letting go of it.  
  

“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll be out in the waiting room if you need me,” he stated, if only to comfort Stiles. Stiles watched him go, wincing internally as the door shut behind him. He was alone.  
  

“Okay, Stiles, here we go. You said you had experienced anxiety “most days,” which is the highest answer on the gradient. Can you describe this anxiety for me?”  
  

“Um, yeah. Is this, like, a test?” he asked, regretting it when she chuckled. He wasn’t sure how to interpret it, so he decided to just answer the question. “I feel sort of, like, gross? I’m not sure how to explain it. I guess it’s kind of like nausea. And my palms tingle and they get sweaty. My head starts to feel like it’s full of cotton and sometimes, if it’s really bad, my vision gets sort of blurry and I can hear my heart beating and there's this, like, rushing in my ears. I don't know. Sometimes I have trouble breathing. It comes out of nowhere a lot. It happened in the waiting room, too.” She nodded, typing quickly.  
  

“Do you have trouble ignoring these feelings? When you start worrying, can you stop?”  
  

“Um, no. Otherwise it wouldn’t be anxiety, right?” he laughed nervously.  
  

“Well, that is a diagnosing factor. You’ve also described some common symptoms of panic attacks. Anxiety and panic often come hand in hand, though they are different. I’m not surprised that you seem to have both. You’ve also scored pretty highly for depression, but you didn’t have any of what we consider to be red flags. You didn’t score for this, but we’re required to ask so I’ll be blunt: are you suicidal?”  
   

“What? I – I don’t think so. I mean, technically, no. I’ve never planned anything out.” This particular line of questioning made him uncomfortable, so he was eager to move on from it. “That’s not why I’m here, anyway.”  
   

“Oh? Then why are you here, Stiles?” she asked invitingly, setting the clipboard aside and finally turning to face him with a smile. She sat with her feet on the chair wheels, hands clasped between her knees. She looked so kind and casual, and yet Stiles was almost scared of her.  
   

“Well, I, um, I guess I’m kind of sad? Like, sometimes I just get sad. For no reason. And I’m kind of numb a lot? I’m not sure how to explain it. I don’t feel much, but when I do feel something it’s anger or sadness. Or worry. I worry a lot,” he explained, dismayed.

    “What do you worry about?”

    “Well, everything. I worry about classes and food and money and Peter and why I’m so sad all the time. Most of the time there’s no reason for it. But when I’m not worried, I, uh, I kind of want to be. Like, I look for stuff to worry about. I don’t know. I’m not making any sense. I’m sorry.”

    “No, Stiles, you’re doing great. You’re making perfect sense. You said you worry about food and money? Are you financially stable?”

    “I’m not, but Peter is. He inherited a lot of money and he also works as a freelance photographer. I live with him. He pretty much pays for everything.”

    “Okay. So you’re fairly dependent on your boyfriend. You also said that you worry about Peter? What is there to worry about?” she prompted after a period of typing again.

    “Well, he’s a lot older than me. I wonder sometimes why he’s dating me. He says he loves me a lot, but I don’t know if it’s true. He’s so sophisticated and smart and, like, rich. I’m just a psychology major with a weird name,” Stiles sighed.

    “Stiles, I’m sure he has his reasons. I’d love to talk more about this issue - and your psychology major, but I’m afraid we’re almost at an hour and I’d still like to speak with Peter. Is that alright? Everything we discussed is confidential, but I’d like to speak with him in private anout what it means to be committed to someone with a mental illness. Is that alright or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

    “Well, I definitely don’t want to do it,” Stiles laughed sardonically. “I think it’d be fine if you talked to him as long as you don’t tell him what I said.”

    Eva smiled at him knowingly. “I won’t tell him a word of what you said. That’s between you and Peter.” With that, she gestured for Stiles to leave and asked him to call Peter in for her while she finished typing up her report. Peter seemed confused at first but went in anyway, knowing it must be important. He knocked softly against the doorframe, standing in the open doorway.

    “Peter! Hello. Have a seat, will you?” she suggested sweetly, closing her laptop and turning to face him. “As I’m sure you know, my meeting with Stiles is completely confidential. He has consented to this conversation, though. I just wanted to discuss his needs with you. I’m sure you realize this is an important part of Stiles’ life. It’s crucial that he get the support he needs right now. I get the impression that you had something to do with him coming here. If so, I applaud your initiative. It can be hard to push a loved one in the direction of care if you know it will be difficult for them, but I assure you it was the right choice. Stiles will benefit greatly from these sessions, I’m sure. Speaking of his benefit, though, there’s a few more thing he’ll be needing from you in the near future.”

   “I’m listening.”

   “Of course. This will be difficult to explain without violating Stiles’ privacy, but I’ll do my best. Stiles needs more assurance of commitment, I believe. I think the best way for you to help in that area is to just tell him how you feel. He needs to be reminded of your love and support. He will especially need that in times of stress. Sometimes all you will be able to do for him is remind him that you love him and care about his feelings. Make sure he comes back here at least every two weeks. If you want, we can make an appointment now.”

   “That’s alright. I’ve already scheduled the next one. He promised me he would come at least twice. I’ll talk to him about more after that.”  
  

“Okay. I suppose that’s all I can ask,” she said with a smile. “That’s all, then. And I’m out of time. I’ll walk with you to the waiting room so I can bring in my next client.”

   Peter grimaced a little at the use of the word client, but supposed it was accurate. He just hoped Stiles was more than a client to her. Upon arriving at the waiting room, he didn’t see Stiles. At first he panicked but then he saw him returning from the restroom.

   “Hello, love,” he grinned, taking Stiles’ hand and kissing him chastely. “Ready to go for falafel?”


End file.
